


in the Cell of a Clown

by MONANIK



Series: Places on Earth [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Captured Lance, Emotional Hurt, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, Gay Lance (Voltron), Heavy Angst, Hurt Lance (Voltron), Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kidnapping, Lance (Voltron) Angst, Lance (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Abuse, Stockholm Syndrome, keith is not so good at first, kind of, not really - Freeform, sex slave lance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-08-02 17:37:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16309667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MONANIK/pseuds/MONANIK
Summary: The day Lance McClain got kidnapped started out like any other day. Unaware of what’s to come, he naively skipped through the corridor dressed in silken soft, pale blue pajamas. He ate breakfast with his family, teased his brothers and sisters, and kissed his mother goodbye before leaving early for the train. All of it taken for granted, a natural part of his routine.His mother watched him as he exited the house and stood by the door as he strode off with a skip in his step.It was the last time Lance McClain was seen.





	1. Pale Blue Boy

**Author's Note:**

> [insert multiple trigger warnings because I almost triggered myself while writing so you can imagin what's to come]
> 
> I had this idea I just HAD to write down, and I ended with an entire first chapter so I'm posting it. Dunno when I'll update this, since I'm working on multiple projects at the moment, but I intend to finish it at some point.

_The day Lance McClain got kidnapped started out like any other day. Unaware of what’s to come, he naively skipped through the corridor dressed in silken soft, pale blue pajamas. He ate breakfast with his family, teased his brothers and sisters, and kissed his mother goodbye before leaving early for the train. All of it taken for granted, a natural part of his routine._

_His mother watched him as he exited the house and stood by the door as he strode off with a skip in his step._

_It was the last time Lance McClain was seen._

 

-

 

As if superglued by the lashes, his eyelids wouldn’t budge an inch. All he could remember was the stale taste of blood in his mouth and a foul stench in the air, then it all went black.

He can’t remember the last time his body felt so unlike his, so unlike everything he’s come to know and familiarize himself with so dearly. Everything hurt down to the marrow of his bones.

His nails scraped across something cold and cemented. He must be inside somewhere, a house or some older building. Around him was nothing but darkness as his eyes were unwilling to cooperate, stubbornly shut closed. The steadily growing panic in his gut sent a shock wave of nausea coursing through his body and up his throat. He could feel bile forming at the pit, ready to flood and scatter his breakfast across the cool surface. Gagging, he rubbed at his eyes violently— another wave of nausea running over him. It felt as though someone was showering him in bursts of cold and lukewarm water.

As his eyes finally opened, so did his lungs, and he remember how to breathe again. Heaving and panting roughly, he sat himself up and tried his best to gather information.

Then, blood ran cold in his veins. This wasn’t just a home, it was someone’s basement.

A single lightbulb hung low from the ceiling, encasing the small space in a sickly pale, blue glow. There was no furniture in the room, only a single, moldy mattress; the one he’d been laying on. There were no windows, barely a door less than half his heigh right in front of him.

He sat dead still, listening intently to the beating of his heart. His brain tried to catch up, tried to piece it all together, but was failing miserably. Without aid he was left to float powerlessly in a raging river, smacking hard against stones and cliffs as he went.

_He’d been kidnapped._

When? On his way to school, probably. What happened then? What happened after his blackout?

He sat back on the moldy mattress, feeling the bile inching closer to the roof of his mouth. He gagged.

With his nails dug deep into his biceps, he listened for sound. The sound of what? Anything. Anything would do. Some indication of a civilization, an indication that he hadn’t just been left to rot. He listened, focused all his energy on the broken organs on each side of his pounding head. Tried and tried with all his might to make out something, but to no avail. All he could hear was the ringing in his ears and the rapid beating of his heart.

His throat clenched involuntarily, a scream wanting out, but he knew it would do him no good. There were absolutely no windows, which meant he was most certainly in some sort of basement, and the absence of said escape routes meant the absence of air-pockets— no way for anyone to hear his screams for help.

A burning behind his eyelids, an itchy and dry throat, and sore muscles. He was hurt, badly, but had no idea where. Was he imagining all of it? Was he really just at home, stuck in a horrible, horrible nightmare? That must be it, right? This can’t be real.

But it was, he realized, for something hot trickled down his thigs and cheeks and pooled where his back ended.

He reached a shaky hand down, stomach churning at the slow realization of what his brain refused to accept. He touched himself gingerly, scared to find out, and as he did felt jolts of pain vibrating through his back and stomach. Somewhere deep in his head, behind all the ruckus, he acknowledged the absence of his pants— the ones he’d worn this morning— and noted a worn pair of black pants which clung to his naked groin.

An unsteady hand found its way up, and Lance retched violently at the sight. Blood. Thick and black and in a place it shouldn’t be, coupled with pain he shouldn’t feel, in a home in which he shouldn’t be.

He threw up. Aggressively and all over the sorry excuse for a mattress. His mind registered how that must be a bad thing, how he might have to sleep in it later, and so Lance responded the only way he knew how: Threw up more. Retched and squirmed and coughed until nothing but acid came out.

Then, he heard it. Footsteps. Approaching, slow but heavy, as though clad in army boots, as though carrying something much heavier than Lance. Many times heavier than Lance.

It suddenly stopped, silenced, and then the door slowly creaked open. In came a man almost twice the size of Lance. On his feet were, in fact, army boots. Thick and brown and muddy, tied to the top where they dug into dense calves. He was wearing a pair of washed out jeans, stained and muddy as well, and on his hands were dirty gloves. His protruding stomach was hidden below a black vest and a dark-brown shirt.

Then, Lance’s eyes met his. They were dead cold, hidden behind a thin layer of greasy bangs. He looked sweaty and tired. Something feral burned behind his gaze and punctured holes through Lance.

_My captor._

The man stood dead still in front of Lance, panting and staring straight through the fragile boy. It seemed as though he was completely out of it, his eyes glazed and distant. It made him want to gag again, but he couldn’t even do that. His entire body was in a state of agonizing paralysis.

His captor was holding a stool, heavy and wobbly, and put it down in front of Lance after having closed the comically small entrance.

“Hi Lance!”

Came the sudden high-pitched greeting which pierced through his skull and sent a burst of unwelcome anxiety through him. He flinched and backed further against the wall, crawling in on himself in a weak attempt to protect his broken body.

“Who are you?” he heard himself ask, distantly and muted as if his voice wasn’t his, raspy and drowned in terror.

The man in the chair smiled a wicked smile, grin spread terrifyingly wide. Scars were visible at the corners of his mouth, as if his smile had once been forced into place. Lance felt shivers as they raked downwards, clawed at his back and rose the fine hairs on his arms.

“I’m your boyfriend! How can you not remember your own boyfriend, baby?” he said and grinned wider, amused by Lance’s reaction.

“My name’s Scott, and from now on you’re staying with me.” He said, “I kidnapped you and you’re staying- staying with me. Maybe I’ll let you leave in a few years if you’re a good boy!”

His nails broke muscle tissue, blood quickly ran down his forearms and onto his already ruined pants and mattress. A few years?

A few years?

“Why are you doing this…” he asked, tears running down his cheeks. His body was shuddering violently, and the air stank of blood and sweat. Scott smelled bad.

But his captor wouldn’t satisfy him with a response,

“I expect to have sex at least three times a day, and I will run some tests on you to make sure you’re not— you’re not carrying.”

He inched closer as he spoke, the chair scraping against floor. Lance wanted to claw his eyes out but opted instead for raking his nails through the delicate flesh on his tan arms. His throat clenched again as he smelled him, the stench of sweat and grease and piss coming off him in thick waves.

Then, without warning, Scott dove for him. His body slammed against the thin mattress, a shockwave through his spine paralyzing him on the spot. His back muscles contracted, and he couldn’t move an inch as Scott manhandled him and pulled his pants down and off his body. The unwelcome weight atop his used body made his lungs stagger. He could feel his sweat where it had soaked-through pants, pressed against Lance’s now bare thighs.

This time he did scream.

He screamed loud and ugly, throat breaking between bursts of high-pitched wailing and coughing. His captor’s right hand grabbed a hold of his wrists, successfully pinning him against the mattress, as his other hand found its way towards his own dick where it was hard and leaking, peaking through dirty fabric and dense pubes.

A push and a shove and then something breaching him, entering without any approval— against his body and his mind. The stinging was unbearable. He felt stretched beyond repair; could feel himself tearing slowly; felt the trickling of his blood as it ran down his thighs. His screams were brutal, hoarse and shilling—painful to even his own ears.

“You can scream as much as you— ugh— want.” He gasped out, drool falling down his chin and onto Lance’s cheek and chest. He gagged again, tears soaking the mattress below, “No one— hah— will hear you—!” he said, laughing and grunting and releasing with one last, brutal thrust inside of Lance.

He pulled out quickly, “Oops. Forgot a condom!”

“If I catch something, I’ll cut your legs off.” he threatened wholehartedly and beamed down at Lance, who could only stare— stuck in a trance of throbbing pain, his eyes blown wide— not even squirming against the light of the bulb as it shone down on him when his captor turned to walk out.

“Oh! Almost forgot!” he exclaimed suddenly, and turned around, “You don’t have to worry about a thing! Soon— soon— soon you’ll get, get accustomed to it, don’t worry! I’ve found someone to feed and bathe you from time to time— I want you clean.” He said and left.

All he could hear were the sounds of heavy footsteps as they clomped away, then there was nothing but silence.

 

 

And that’s how he lived. For four weeks he was held captive, given nothing but stale crackers and water to survive. He had lost track of time and place somewhere along the line, had forgotten how it feels to be clean. Blood and semen had mixed and dried everywhere in and on his body. It mingled with the sweat and blood on his skin and clothes. He was sleeping in his own vomit and blood and grease and felt dirt and coagulated blood below his fingernails, was sure some of his wounds were infected for they throbbed and swelled threateningly and painfully.

His days were lost to pain and rape, over and over again. Scott had seen it all, every inch of Lance’s withering body had been put on display for a man so disturbing it made his guts twist in anxious terror. Even though he’d never been touched before, never had someone to show all of him to... Now he never would. Even if he miraculously fled, who would want him now?

Left alone with nothing to do, not even a book to read or a clock to keep track of time, he was truly alone. Sometimes for hours or days on end without company, without a single sound. Occasionally, the lightbulb above would break and envelop him in complete darkness for God knows how long.

Lance was living on autopilot. Could no longer taste or see properly, his ears having long since given up, his screams slowly dying out.

 

Then, one day, he heard footsteps. But these ones were light. So light— in fact— that had it not been for his anxiety and paranoia he would have missed it entirely. They were faint and as quiet as the dead, and for a minute he allowed himself to indulge in the idea of death’s arrival— allowed himself the freedom to fantasize about being set free.

The footsteps stopped outside his door, and he counted the seconds it took for the code to be typed in and the door to unlock.

A man crouched in— a little older than Lance, maybe. He could feel his vision clearing up and something heavy falling down, releasing the strain it had held on his throat.

The stranger in the room stood still in front of him, as if taken aback by the situation— the scene.

He was unmistakably handsome: In his early twenties, broad shoulders and firm legs, with ebony hair tied in a messy ponytail and violet eyes— narrowed and burning with a passion Lance couldn’t describe.

Regardless, his mind flooded with relief. This stranger in front of him smelled of perfume and a rain-soaked forest, refreshing to the soul which sits captured in the confides of four walls and a comical door.

“I’m supposed to give you a bath…” the stranger spoke, voice raspy and low.

“Please…” he heard himself speak, for the first time in what felt like weeks, voice barely aduible, “Please… please— he…. Please…”

His hands reached out to the now crouched stranger, grabbing weakly at the cloth of his button up, red shirt. He just wanted to smell him closer, remind himself of that distant familiarity. He missed the forest, the rain.

“It’s OK.” He said and brushed a calloused hand through the short hairs on Lance’s head, “Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?” he asked and stood up.

He picked up a bucket of water from right by the door, and walked over to a shivering Lance.

“Can you undress for me?” he asked.

Lance shook his head.

“Please?” He tried again, “I need to clean you up. I promise I won’t do anything to hurt you.” He said with a furrow of his brows.

Lance shook his head.

“I’m not him.” He said and crossed his arms over his knees, waiting patiently for what felt like an eternity until Lance’s gaze finally fell. With shaky hands and tear-blurred eyes he reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head, getting stuck halfway off.

“I can— I can’t— I can’t do it! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he wailed, panic rushing over him the second his vision got obscured, “Please— don’t hurt, don’t hurt me!”

His arms ached where they were stuck above his head, tangled in the folds of the stinky fabric.

“It’s OK! Calm down! I’ll help you.” Said the stranger.

Suddenly, light returned, and he could see again, though this time he was wearing no shirt.

The cold air against his skin hurt, so did the pity in the eyes of the stranger.

“You look horrible…” he muttered and then said something so quietly Lance missed it entirely, even in the deafening silence of the cell.

“My name is Keith, by the way.” He said, louder, “And I’m not Scott.”

 


	2. Friendly Moths

Time seemed like a distant concept, something which belonged to his past life— the life he was robbed off. The life he took for granted for 15 years.

Now, in his bunker, time was lost to suffering. Day in and day out. As sad as it sounds, Lance had grown accustomed to it. The emotional pain started blending with the physical, and his taste buds slowly stopped trying to find pleasure in the crumbs left by his feet.

Maybe he should be dead by now, killed by his own hand, but he was still there— stubbornly holding on.

The sole reason for his stubbornness was a visit a month worth.

 

A few times a month came a visitor in the shape of a young, feather-footed man with calloused, gentle fingers and soft words of empty promises.

His eyes never gave much away, yet at the same time they lacked the cold death of Scott’s. Something about him was so painfully human that Lance found himself missing him the second he left. Every day spent in silent wait made him anxious. What if Keith never came back? What if Scott got him, too? What if he was hurt, or killed, or simply decided that Lance was too disgusting to deal with?

Keith had seen him at his absolute lowest— begging, pleading and dirty below his fingernails, all the way down to the tips of his toes.

He even had to go as far as to clean and bandage him whenever he visited, which was his sole purpose in being there to begin with.

 

Had it been his past self, his once life, Lance would have flirted with him. He would have winked and leaned on his elbow, flashed a toothy grin and gush about how gorgeous the young male truly was. He would make him stutter and flush red, would take him out on dates if he could, would do anything to get on his good side and grow to be his equal in all aspects.

Except this wasn’t Lance anymore. Lance was someone else, or rather _something_ which wore his flesh like an empty bag of potatoes.

He didn’t feel like his own person anymore. He didn’t feel worthy of praise, of love, of freedom— disgusted by himself and all he had become. He had no idea what years brought on him, how he looked in the cold light of the bulb above after five years of captivity. Every time Keith walked in, for every day he grew older and uglier, he felt himself shrink in and vanish. Nothing but fragments of him were left, floating aimlessly through the hollowness inside his guts. The only time a part of himself shone through again was during one of Keith’s rare visits, but even then, he eventually broke. He broke under the sympathy of his visitor, broke under the flinch in the man’s stoic posture whenever he crouched inside.

 

Today was no different than any of Keith’s other visits, he thought when he saw the flinch in his shoulders. Regardless, Lance was so happy! Keith was back, again! He wouldn’t have to be alone for a while and could finally talk to someone again, at least until he’s done and leaves. Keith usually never replies to his raspy mumbling, probably thinks he’s lost his mind already, yet he lets him yap on and on.

“I really like garlic knots!” he rasped, arm shaking in Keith’s gentle hold as a wet cloth rubbed softly up and down.

“My mom made the best garlic knots…” he whispered, smile plastered on his face, “I miss eating them.” He said.

Keith remained silent, scrubbing his way through another day at work.

“She used to sing me lullabies when I was a kid…” he said and coughed into his fist, Keith looked up for a second to check up on him, but quickly went back to work.

“You know,” he started, gasping a little for air, the cloth was rough on his skin and left marks where it passed despite Keith’ gentleness, “I get really lonely here. But it’s OK, your visits help a lot. When you’re here, I don’t feel so lonely anymore.”

The cloth slid up his arm to his shoulder where his angry, inflamed skin had broken apart.

“Sometimes a moth or a bee will find their way in,” he continued, gasping between words, “And I always befriend them! Isn’t that weird? I’ve always been an animal person.” He gushed and felt a stutter in his heart as the cold water trickled down his spine.

He was about to tell Keith about Herr Silverman, the silvery, silky moth that survived the longest a took a liking to Lance but didn’t get to.

“You’re malnourished as fuck.” He said and dropped the cloth in the bucked, gently felt the wounds on Lance’s body with soft fingertips and a furrow of his brows so intense Lance thought his face might crack open.

But he didn’t care. Didn’t even care that Keith was touching him for no reasonable purpose, like washing him. All he cared about was his voice.

_He talked to me!_

And he wanted to talk back, to answer and ask, but his voice failed him. He was simply too excited!

“I can’t do this anymore.” He suddenly said and stood up abruptly.

Lance flinched in response, covered his head between his knees and below his arms, and listened as he let out a soft whimper. When no kick came, when no knife cut through his soft flesh, he looked up again.

Keith was standing over him, watching him. Staring at him. His brows were even more furrowed, angry now, and his eyes were blown wide, his lips slack and hanging slightly open.

By his sides were his hands, clenched into tight fists— shaking.

“I can’t do this anymore…” he muttered to himself, then turned.

And then he was gone, and Lance didn’t see him again for six months.

Well, at least that’s what he counted to in the cell of a clown.

 

After six months of quiet, darkness, when not even a single moth wanted to keep him company, Lance heard a pair of familiar steps once more tipping down the stairs. Softly and gently they made their way to his cell, much quieter than usually.

Regardless, Lance jumped to his feet. Or, well, stood up slowly on wobbly knees— is a more accurate description. But in his heart, in that moment, he was the old Lance. The old Lance that had just heard the front door open and his favorite aunt walk in after having been gone for a year.

The door creaked open, and in crouched a rough looking Keith, hair sticking out in every direction, eyes blown wide with adrenaline, and clothed in all black. A bandana hid half of his face, and a black hood shielded his eyes and hair from direct light.

“Come with me, quick.” He said and gestured for Lance to follow him out of the cell, hand outstretched and fingers signaling him to come forward.

_It’s a trap, certainly! And what a cruel trap at that!_

To think that Scott would use Keith, his one ticket back to something akin to himself, in such a horrible way. He wouldn’t fall for it.

Lance stood still in his place and shook his head, hands clutched in front of his staggering chest.

“Lance. We don’t have time for this! C’mon! Follow me! He’ll wake up soon and once he does, we’re both done for!” he said, whispering but louder than before, urgency coating his tongue.

Lance just shook his head again, tears prickling at the corners before falling down his cheeks.

“Please…” he whispered, “Please don’t do this to me…” he pleaded, voice cracking and raspy and so quiet he was surprised any noise came out, “I know I’m not supposed to leave, I’ve only been a good boy. Please, I don’t deserve this…” he begged, hands now clasped in front of his face in a silent prayer, begging him to not do this.

To go back to being his gentle, quiet visitor with the cold cloth.

Keith looked out the door quickly, then back to Lance, and I one swift movement dove for him. Before Lance could so much as blink, all air was knocked out of him and he collapsed into a warm, forest-y embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This short story is slowly coming to an end.  
> Whetever was Keith's reason...
> 
> Totally am not (am) pulling inspiration from real life kidnappers or anything, haha.
> 
> Anyone catch that Forgive Me Leonard Peacock reference?


	3. The Smell of Dusk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First song is: Lithium - Nirvana  
> Second song is: Somewhere Over the Rainbow - Israel Kamakawiwo'ole

_I'm so happy, 'cause today I've found my friends_  
 _They're in my head_  
 _I'm so ugly, that's okay, 'cause so are you_  
 _We've broke our mirrors_  
 _Sunday morning, is every day for all I care_  
 _And I'm not scared_  
 _Light my candles, in a daze, 'cause I've found God_  
  


-()-

 

He woke to the gentle _thump, thump, thump_ of the rain splattering against the car-windows. It was a soothing, repetitive sound and it lulled him to sleep a handful of times before he finally gave in. He was sitting in a car, riding shotgun—with a soft blanket hastily draped over his body. It had slid down to his hips.

Next to him sat Keith, thoroughly drenched from head to toe and sporting the biggest frown he’d ever seen on him. His hands were gripping the steering wheel in a vice-like hold—like he was trying to kill a snake on the hunt.

An old Nirvana song kept playing on the radio, drowned out by the rain and engine. Over the radio stood a bouncing hula-girl—swinging her hips from side to side. A pair of dice hung from the review mirror and a bunch of CDs and papers were strewn about on the dashboard and in the cup-holder by the gearshift. Aside from that there was also a small camera, a bunch of keys hanging from a ring that was mostly just keychains and very little keys, and a half-empty water bottle.

His eyes slowly ascended to the figure behind the wheel. He was sporting a pair of really, _really_ deep eyebags and his hair was ruffled and tangled beyond repair—as if he’d been running his fingers through it constantly.

For a moment he just sat there and enjoyed the view, lingered on every feature, and bashed in the gentle atmosphere despite Keith’s growing panic.

He stared and stared and waited for it all to disappear, for him to wake up a final—real time.

But he never did.

 

Minutes kept passing buy. The song kept playing and playing, and Keith’s expression remained unchanging. The steady thumping of the rain grew heavier, as did the slowly approaching realization.

_You’re not in the cell._

It wasn’t much, but it was all his brain could supply him in the moment. He wasn’t in his cell. He was outside, in someone else’s car (presumably Keith’s). He was on the road, almost free.

Or was he? Why was he in the car? What was Keith planning? Was this just Scott re-locating him? A test?

He flinched upright at the sudden burst of fear and adrenaline, which earned him Keith’s attention—who flinched himself at Lance’s sudden and drastic movement.

“Where are we going?!”

“Relax—”

“No, Keith, you don’t understand. I can’t—I can’t be doing this! I need to go back before he realizes!”

He tried yanking the door-handle, but the thing wouldn’t budge. Somewhere, distant, he could hear the faint sound of Keith urging him to calm down—to listen—but his mind was running a mile a minute. _Out, out, out!_

“Lance!”

Silence enveloped and once again only the _thud, thud, thud_ of the rain and the faint sound of the radio could be heard. A new song was playing.

_Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high_

“Please, just let me explain.” He pleaded, eyebrows furrowed and his posture stiff, “I’m not going to hurt you, OK?”

Lance could feel the expansion of his lungs every time he took a breath. Partially because they started hurting somewhere along the way, partially because it helped to focus on it. It gave him peace and a path for his mind to follow.

“Look, I couldn’t stand seeing you like that anymore so I—”

He broke off, eyes stuck on a spot somewhere in the distance. The sun was setting for the day and cast orange colors on the miles and miles of forest before them. Its glow graced the fine lines of Keith’s face and made his skin glow golden, his jawline sharper, his eyes glisten.

Their intense gaze didn’t waver—not even once— as he continued:

“I killed him.”

_And the dreams that you dream of once in a lullaby_

Again, the air around them pulled them down—weighed heavy on their shoulders—and yet he felt strangely…free. Released. Something lifted off his chest and soared out through the closed, rain-stained windows. The downpour had sizzled down to a gentle frizzle.

Keith took a deep breath and Lance watched his chest heave—watched his Adam-apple bop with every swallow.

“But why?” he heard himself asking.

And what was he referring to? Everything. _Why_ kept ringing on and on, stuck on a loop in his head. Why had he saved him? But more importantly: why not earlier? Why now?

Since the first day he met him he’d been asking himself the same question. Why was Keith always there? Why did he keep coming back? Why was he being so kind yet so cruel? All he wanted was an answer. He wasn’t even expecting it to be a good one. For once in his pathetic life he just wanted to know _why him._

A question he’d asked himself many times before, over and over again.

After all: he had a lot of time to think. Many years to ponder his existence, and the existence of his pain and suffering. Keith was always the biggest question-mark.

So, why?

_Somewhere over the rainbow, bluebirds fly_

“Because I didn’t know what to do.” He said.

His eyes finally left the road for a moment and locked on Lance’s. For a brief second, his world titled off its axis, then it came back to normal when Keith’s gaze glued itself to the road again.

The death-grip on the steering wheel loosened, as if he’d had this conversation a million times. This wasn’t new to Keith. This was something he’d thought and grumbled about for God-knows how long. This was a Keith who knew what he was about to say, who’d practiced and gone over it in his head a million times.

If there was one thing Lance had learnt about Keith during his visits, it was that the man wasn’t much of a talker—neither in practice nor in theory—and yet there he sat. Unafraid. Unrelenting.

He sighed, “Scott took me in when I was a child. I was young, nothing but a kid, couldn’t have been more than three or four. I’d been abandoned somewhere in the woods around his home, so he took me in. Dressed me, fed me, gave me clothes and a roof to sleep under.” He paused and glanced over at Lance again.

“At first it was all good. I got food and warmth and protection. As a kid, I didn’t know better. I had no idea about what he did when I wasn’t looking, until one day I did. One day he told me—showed me—and I didn’t do anything. I could only watch and do my work where I was needed.”

A stutter in his breath made him stop and re-collect himself. His left elbow found ground by the window to his left, and his hand carded swiftly and anxiously through black locks. Lance swallowed around the lump in his throat.

_Someday, I wish upon a star_

_Wake me up where the clouds are far behind me_

“She didn’t last long.” He said.

The sun had switched to a cooler tone, now enveloping the world below it in purples and reds. Keith lit a cigarette and opened the window to let the smoke out. Droplets entered the car and wet his hand—made it glisten in the setting sun. The cool wind ruffled his hair and founds its way to Lance who breathed in the scent of rain-soaked forest and the dusk of day.

“Next time was you, and I remember thinking how beautiful and fragile and broken you were—that first day. Already then he’d ruined you, but he was treating you differently. For some reason he wouldn’t let you die no matter what.”

He sucked in smoke and held it behind thin, shut lips before letting it out in a puff of smoke. It rose to the sky outside the car-window. But the rain kept on falling, despite the setting sun on the horizon up front.

“I guess the bottom line is I gave up trying to pretend it was normal. I don’t know why; maybe I was scared of what would happen to me—like a fucking pussy. Maybe I feared I might lose my home if I helped you flee. Or worse: my life.” he flicked his wrist, circling it in an empty gesture as he searched for the right words, “I guess I stopped caring when you started coughing regularly, when your wounds stopped healing, and when the bruises wouldn’t fade anymore. I’d grown close to you in that time, had had to listen to your stories of your past for hours every time I came by. You became a constant in my life that I was unwilling to lose, a friend even, and I just couldn’t bear it anymore. So, I killed him.” A breath, “Not on purpose, of course. It sort-of just happened. But I didn’t mean to, I swear! I accidentally pushed him too hard and he fell down the stairs and then he wouldn’t get up—”

“Keith…”

His voice sounded rough and raspy to his own ears; fragile, broken—but he willed himself to speak anyways.

_Well, I see trees of green and red roses too_

_I’ll watch them bloom for me and you_

“It’s OK.”

“It is?”

“Mm-hm.”

_The colors of the rainbow, so pretty in the sky_

_And also on the faces of people passing by_

He flicked away the cigarette with a gentle sort-of fury behind his movements, like he was mad at the cigarette for displeasing him with its presence in his hand.

“You hungry?”

“Starving.”

Something akin to a tickle rumbled up from between his ribs and vibrated through his chest. It flowed like lapping waves through his body, warm and sudden and uncontrollable—but gentle and soothing all the same. It made every muscle relax and the tension leave his shoulders. _How long had it been?_

“Yeah, you have been for a while now, huh?” Keith asked, a smirk growing at the corner of his lip. Lance’s heart stuttered in his chest.

He watched him for a moment and basked in the warmth he emitted. The blanket on his hips and legs was soft to the touch and gentle on his broken skin. It would take a while for him to patch himself up, to regain that inner glow his skin once had.

It stung to think about. His heart twisted and turned at the thought of what had become of him, so he reached up to finally see himself in the mirror for the first time in so many years. But before he could a soft, warm, calloused hand gently grabbed a hold of his. He flinched involuntarily in response, but Keith had stopped reacting to it. Instead, he smiled. Bittersweet and gentle.

“Maybe wait with that.”

He lifted a hand to his cheek and stroked gently at the rough, dry skin there.

“That bad?” came a soft, fragile question. It was barely audible.

Keith didn’t reply.

 _Someday I wish upon a star_  
Wake up where the clouds are far behind me  
Where trouble melts like lemon drops

Instead, his hand fell back to the wheel and his eyes trained themselves on the ever-darkening road before them. The sun was barely visible at this point, peeking out from the distance. Everything was coated in a layer of violet and red, even Keith. His eyes seemed more purple than ever before.

Lance itched to see, to view himself, to fix what could be fixed in the moment. Somewhere deep inside rumbled a low, hesitant spark of _hope,_ of _desire_. Keith was, after all, very attractive. If he could make himself look even a tad bit prettier, a little more put together…

“After you’ve eaten we’ll head to the nearest station.” He said, breaking his thoughts, “There, we’ll find someone who can help you contact your family and I’ll turn myself in.” he finished.

Lance could only gape at him.

“What…?” he asked.

Keith’s eyes were firmly set on the road ahead, barely moving at all. His shoulders were squared—firm in his resolution.

“You can’t do that.” He heard himself counter, “You can’t, Keith! You’re…”

_High above the chimney top  
That's where you'll find me_

“You’re my friend…!”

That caught his attention.

“Please, don’t!”

“They’ll figure it out eventually anyways.”

“Who cares! I’ll be your witness!”

“But you’re not—you weren’t there—”

“I don’t care! I can’t let you do that!”

He took a slow, choppy breath. Tears streaked his cheeks.

“Please…”

How many times had he said that word without a reply? How many times had it been brushed off as mere background noise, an annoyance? And yet now, in this car, sat a person who listened—who heard his plea.

“Okay.” He nodded and slowly, gently reached out a hand towards Lance—like towards a wounded, terrified stray on the road. Hesitant but caring, wanting.

Lance could only stare, unsure of what to do with it. Hadn’t he been a very touchy person once? He couldn’t remember. Regardless, it was as if some inner calling urged him to touch him, to take the offering hand—so he did. He did, and he smiled, and Keith smiled in return.

“I won’t, I promise. OK?” he said and glanced over at Lance. The sun had fully set, and the sky began filling with twinkling stars.

As silence enveloped them once again, and the song on the radio slowly came to its end, Lance’s eyes remained fixated on the expanse in front of him. How long it had been since he last saw nature, the sky, the sun. It seemed surreal, like a dream, but it wasn’t. This time it was real, and for a moment he allowed himself to have faith in Keith’s words. Maybe this time they’d be true.

 

 _Somewhere over the rainbow_  
Bluebirds fly  
And the dreams that you dream of  
Dreams really do come true

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading~!  
> Do tell me what you think, I love reading your comments and they help motivate me.
> 
> If you're interested feel free to check out my other fics. I intend to finish them all this year! 
> 
> Thank you for your support   
> xoxo


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